


Starstruck

by JumpingShinyFrogs



Category: Monster Hunter (Video Games)
Genre: Contest Entry, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Minor Character Death, Survival, animal depression, kind of, mild Self-harm, semi-graphic descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JumpingShinyFrogs/pseuds/JumpingShinyFrogs
Summary: Bramble is a hunter. Moonflight is a Valstrax. Neither of them wanted to be stranded together in the jungle, but fate doesn’t seem to care.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Starstruck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Monster Hunter Amino’s Grand Festival writing contest, whose prompt asked for a hunter having an experience with a monster that changes their opinion on the beasts. I went pretty tryhard on this and it ended up getting really long. Because of the way Amino works, this had to be split into multiple posts. Which is against the rules of the contest. But not really? I dunno, we’ll see how it goes.
> 
> Cw for the things in the tags; it’s all fairly moderate but it’s definitely there.

Inhale air, exhale power.

Moonflight repeats the mantra in her mind as she blasts through the sky, eyes and nose covered by a thin membrane to shield them from the shrieking wind. Breathe in through her chest and use her inner fire to push herself forward. Just like Father taught her, when the last of her wing-caps fell away and she leapt from her nest to find her own place in the world.

Her wings tremble from the strain of fighting against the air currents. Two weeks of flying from her distant nest with no rest has pushed her to her limits. There was no time to land as she flew across rolling fields and jagged mountain summits on her journey to the towering spire that glimmers on the horizon. She is a strong flier, but the trip to the mating grounds is always harrowing, and every time Moonflight finds herself wishing she had prepared better.

A brown speck in the air ahead catches her attention for but a second before it is forgotten. She has eyes only for the distant peak whose tip is just coming into view; the rest of the spire is hidden by the curve of the planet. Her destination is in reach, and she needs only to push herself a little more. By the time Sun bows and gives the world to Moon, she will be reunited with her mate.

The fire in her chest burns a little hotter at the thought of him, with his sharp beak and gleaming scales and fire tinged an entrancing pink. Five cold seasons have passed since she last saw him, and she longs to brush beaks with him, to sing the soft hymn that drew him to her in the first place, to teach her hatchling how to tame the sky alongside him. Last season’s chick perished when a passing sky-swimmer snatched it up, and Moonflight is determined to prevent another tragedy this year.

She tucks her wings in tighter in an effort to fly ever so slightly faster. It is no use. After her long flight, she is all but spent. Her shoulders relax against her will, slowing her pace. Below, a blur of blue and vibrant green resolves itself into the form of a lush coastal jungle, though Moonflight still can’t make out the details at such blinding speeds.

She doesn’t see the wooden beast until it is too late.

It hangs in the air ahead, a pale bulbous protrusion on top and a brown shell below. By the time Moonflight realises that it lies in her path, there is no way she can avoid it; to swerve would be to dislocate her own shoulder, or worse, snap her own neck. There is nothing she can do but pull in as much air as possible and barrel straight through it. Unfortunate, that the wooden beast must die, but better it than her.

She crashes into the creature and hears it scream in a multitude of voices, shattered shards of its wooden shell stinging at her eyes and wings. But she’s so tired, and lacks the force to rip straight through. Something rough and tangling wraps itself around her, leeching the speed from her flight. Desperately, Moonflight tries to point her wings downwards in a clumsy hover, but the creeping tentacles tug insistently at her, coiling themselves around her wings and stifling her fire.

Just as she sucks in a great breath for a final push through the belly of the beast, her chest erupts in a burst of screaming heat. The force of her own power steals her breath away, and at last the beast’s tentacles have their way with her. They tear her from the sky, sending her plummeting to the ground below in a hail of blood and splinters.

Through the burning in her chest and the lethal whipping of the wind and the terrible wailing of the dying beast, Moonflight attempts one last time to follow Father’s advice. Inhale air, exhale power. No air comes to fill her hollow wings. Something has lodged itself deep in her chest, something so great that no air can pass it. Still Moonflight tries.

Inhale pain, exhale agony.  


* * *

“What’re you nodding off for?” asks Holly, lightly tapping Bramble on the nose.

Bramble blinks awake and yawns, brushing sleep from her eyes. Around her, clouds slide past at a sedate pace. A far cry from the frenetic energy of the pilots and riggers at work on the airship. “It’s the thin air,” she says. “Makes me sleepy.”

Holly laughs and tosses her a small bottle, filled with a thick yellow liquid. Uncorking it, Bramble finds it smells of pepper and honey. She smiles and takes a gulp, savouring the way it clings spicy-sweet to the roof of her mouth. Already, she feels more awake.

“Hey, don’t drink all that energy drink,” warns Yucca, sitting on a nearby crate and playing with his hair. “It’s my last one and I’m not paying those damn cats for more.”

Bramble looks him right in the eyes as she takes another long sip. Yucca flips his middle finger at her, but his frown doesn’t reach his eyes, and Bramble knows he is only teasing her.

Holly throws a small pouch of zenny at him. “Here you go, you cheapskate.”

A faint whistling noise starts up, and Bramble frowns. No one else seems aware of it. A bout of tinnitus, perhaps, but Bramble cannot shake the feeling that something is direly wrong.

“Meow! Would you look at that?” exclaims a Felyne, perched on the ship’s guard rail and staring into the distance. 

Bramble joins the cat and gazes out into the horizon. Nothing but clear blue skies and feathery white cirrus clouds as far as the eye can see. She is about to ask the Felyne what they mean when a disturbance catches her eye. A red speck in the sky, tinged white at the edges and rapidly growing larger.

And larger. So large it is almost upon them. Bramble stumbles back, and on instinct finds herself drawing her dual blades. This is a small ship, meant for transport rather than battle, and in the back of her mind Bramble knows it stands no chance against a falling star, or whatever is approaching. But she is a hunter. Her body tenses for war quite of its own accord.

Holly and Yucca have seen the star too, as have the crew. Bramble hears the metallic click of gears sliding into place as someone arms the ship’s pitifully small ballista.

There is barely time to shout a command before the star is upon them and Bramble’s world is lost to chaos. Something huge and silver rips a hole in the hull and becomes tangled up in the ship’s rigging, shrieking like a demon and flailing with sharpened wings. Red and black energy scars the wood of the ship, leaving the air crackling and buzzing in its wake.

Bramble is thrown to the ground by a muscular tail before she even has a chance to swing her swords, and lands flat on her back with the breath knocked out of her. The ship keels dangerously to one side, rapidly losing lift thanks to the great rents in its envelope. Crimson fire burns at Bramble’s mind, dulling her thoughts, and she feels no pressing need to move even as she begins to slide towards a hole in the ship’s railing.

As she falls from the edge through the open sky below, through the panicked wails of human and monster she hears the click of the ballista firing. An unholy screech rips through the air and suddenly the husk of the airship is rocked by an explosion, sending shards of wood and scraps of cloth raining down in a grisly storm. The silver star is tumbling amongst them, and the last thing Bramble thinks before everything goes black is that she hopes the monster breaks its neck.  


* * *

A sudden jolt and the sound of cracking branches and falling leaves finally stirs Bramble back to life.

The back of her head feels like someone is punching it. She hears birds chirping, but the sound is murky, like she’s underwater. Dampness clings to every inch of her body, and she can’t quite tell if the source is her own sweat or the stifling humidity that permeates the air. From her left leg comes a distant, throbbing pain, burning like the smallest of embers and just waiting to turn into a roaring flame.

Her face is pressed into the damp leaf litter, filling her nose with the musty smell of soil. Vaguely, she’s aware of the fact that she was probably caught in the branches of a tree, and only just fell out. 

The taste of iron in her mouth is what finally rouses her. The side of her jaw feels swollen, and a deep, sickening ache runs through it. Tentatively, she probes with her tongue and finds that one of her teeth has all but shattered, leaving a jagged stump in its wake.

When she opens her eyes and tries to push herself up, she instantly regrets it. Even beneath the shade of the tree, the sun is blinding. The stabbing sensation that lances through her skull is worse than any hangover, and Bramble has experienced some truly painful mornings. Her ribs join the chorus of agony as well, and she doesn’t need to look to know that there are bruises there.

Her back isn’t doing much better. She lets herself fall back down, eyes squeezed shut against the harsh light. Even that brief motion is enough to set off her leg. The pain grows more insistent, demanding her attention. Grunting, she tries to shift the offending limb into a more comfortable position.

A scream forces its way from her throat, and she clamps her teeth on her lip hard enough to draw blood. Something is lodged in her thigh, something hot and sharp and faintly tingling, and now that it’s been awoken it refuses to settle back down. With each breath it seems to shift and find new ways to hurt her.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally manages to roll over onto her back. Minor bruises signal their irritation, but they’re nothing compared to the blazing heat in her thigh. With a monumental effort, she sits up.

She nearly screams again. It doesn’t take a medic to spot the cause of her woes. About halfway up her left thigh is embedded a gleaming golden fang, adorned with aquamarine Zinogre hide and pale shockfur. One of her dual blades is jammed in her leg. It’s only buried a quarter of the length, but it is not a small sword. Blood oozes slowly from the wound, dribbling down her sodden pants in narrow threads.

At first, she isn’t sure how to process it. But slowly, she comes to the realisation that she can’t continue like this. To walk around with a weapon stuck in her leg is to invite disaster. She’ll have to pull it out before she tries to move. Whimpering, she steels herself and tears a ragged strip of fabric from her shirt to use as a bandage. After a moment’s thought, she tears another scrap and shoves it into her mouth. 

Carefully, she peels the sweat-soaked fabric of her pants up past the wound, gritting her teeth as the process of unhooking the tangled threads jostles the sword in place. Then with one final deep breath, she grabs the hilt of the sword.

It only takes her five minutes, if she has to guess. But it feels like hours. With each centimetre of the electrified sword she extracts, her body finds new ways to scream at her. It’s as if she’s filling an open wound with molten lead and then poking it with a stick. Even with the rag in her mouth, her screech sends flocks of birds clamouring for the skies.

At long last, her body soaked in sweat and a deathly pallor to her skin, she throws the sword to the ground. Immediately, blood starts to well up from the hole it left behind. Bramble covers it with her makeshift bandage. A crimson flower blooms on the fabric, and within the seconds the rag is soaked through. Bramble tears from her pants this time. The second attempt doesn’t last much longer than the first.

By the time the flow finally starts to decrease, Bramble only has one leg on her pants and half a shirt sleeve left. She allows herself to sit panting for a few minutes, before forcing herself to her feet. The ground spins around her and her leg burns, but compared to the agony of a moment prior, this is nothing. 

She stoops to pick up the Zinogre sword, still soaked in her blood. Despite the fact that she fell on it, its blade is in relatively good condition. Aside from a small chip in the sharpened shells, it’s intact enough to fight with. No matter where she looks, she can’t find its twin. It seems she’ll have to make due with only one dual blade.

She giggles deliriously at the thought. Who ever heard of a single dual blade? Vaguely, she recognises that she probably has a concussion, and the blood loss isn’t helping, but she laughs like a Jaggi anyway. Her latest makeshift bandage is already getting wet again. She could really use a medic right about now. Where are the others and the wreck of the airship?

As much as she’d like to believe she was the only one who fell from the sky, she knows what she saw. The monster just had to go and bring everyone else down with it. Typical. The thing realised it couldn’t win, so it ripped the ship apart out of spite. With any luck, it cracked its skull on a rock. Or maybe Holly and Yucca have already kicked its teeth in. She just needs to find them and ask.

As soon as Bramble starts to walk, she encounters a problem. Her left leg refuses to hold her as strongly as it should. She’s forced to limp agonisingly slowly. No matter. She can rest once she finds the others. Face set in grim determination, she hobbles through the dense jungle in search of the wreck.

* * *

Moonflight twists and writhes against her bonds, sending saltwater splashing up around her. It is no use; the corpse of the wooden beast has her thoroughly pinned. Beneath her, the soft white sand slips and flows around her limbs, trapping them and threatening to bind her to the ground for good. Such would be anathema for a dragon-star, so Moonflight redoubles her efforts to get free.

Her chest is still pierced by the metal-thing the wooden beast left there. No air can pass through it. With no air, she cannot summon her fire to her wings, leaving her trapped in the surf with the shore and its sheltering jungle taunting her just out of reach. The saltwater is creeping up around her, flowing into the myriad shallow cuts and scrapes that scar her silvery carapace.

How long until the water swirls up around her beak? Prey lives in water, but the sea is no place for a dragon-star. She belongs to the sky, where the air is crisp and clear and the clouds beckon for her to dive among them, drinking in feathery tufts of mist as she flies on her endless wanderings. Down here, the air is thick with the mingled scents of salt and leaves and flowers. Blended in amongst the fresh aromas of life, there is the distinctive, rancid stench of death.

Moonflight twists her head to search for the source, to decide if there is a threat to her. All she finds are a few carcasses, floating in the surf and occasionally impacting her carapace. They lack any scales, and their hides are smooth and hairless. Some of them have long manes, and all of them are draped in false skins. Ground-dwellers of some kind. Moonflight has never really felt a need to learn about the different kinds of ground-dwellers. They are all either prey or not prey to her.

All of the ground-dwellers are dead, including the smaller furry ones. Shame. Perhaps they died when the wooden beast crushed them. They are not Moonflight’s problem. 

If nothing else, they might make a decent meal. She snaps a nearby carcass up in her jaws, running her barbed tongue along it and letting her scent glands explore it. The false outer skin it wears catches on her teeth, and it tastes of musk and metal. Moonflight chitters in disgust. This is no prey for her.

She tries to drop it, but its loose skin has become thoroughly trapped on her needle-teeth. The carcass seems determined to remain in her jaws. Just as she is about to thrash her head to loosen the not-prey corpse, a shrill sound draws her attention.

Instinctively, Moonflight lowers her head, ignoring how the not-prey’s sprawling limbs brush against her face. Standing on the edge of the shore, her sharp eyes pick out the lanky figure of a not-prey, a living one this time. Most of its false skin has been ripped away by some other predator, leaving its soft hide exposed to the air. Blood cakes its leg, dried right where it flowed.

Moonflight cannot help but chitter in disgust at the sight. Has this creature never learned to groom itself? Its shaggy mane is matted and ragged, and in places where there is no blood, dirt coats its skin instead. Clearly, this not-prey’s parents did a poor job of teaching it life skills.

It chirps again, a high-pitched noise that reminds Moonflight of dragon-star chicks at the mating grounds. Perhaps this not-prey is only a hatchling. It must be searching for its parents. Suddenly it steps into the surf, hobbling along and making sharp, pained noises with each step. 

Even with the carcass stuck in her mouth, Moonflight can scent the not-prey’s wounded leg from here. A dragon-star’s scenting skills tend not to be the best—why bother to scent prey when seeing it from above is so much easier? If even Moonflight can smell it, then every predator in the jungle must be on their way to hunt this suffering creature by now.

The not-prey limps straight through the surf, hissing and chirping and shrieking all the while. Its parents must be thoroughly useless, Moonflight decides. They haven’t even taught it not to make noise when predators are near. The chick is lucky Moonflight has already learned that its kind are not worth eating.

As it draws closer, Moonflight tastes more of its scent in the air. Beneath the all-encompassing stench of blood there is a hint of something sweet. Stronger still is the sharp metallic tang of burning air, like the scent of the sky after a storm. Moonflight hadn’t known the air could burn on the ground, too.

None of the not-prey carcasses around her smell of stormy skies. It must be a scent unique to this one in particular. Stormsmell fights its way through the shallow water until it reaches the carcass of the wooden beast. It holds a golden fang in one of its talons. Moonflight supposes it needs it, since its own claws are so stubby and worthless.

It casts Moonflight a strange look as it walks past, giving her a sharp snort and a nudge with its foot. Moonflight gives it a warning hiss, but then she notices something. Its eyes show a lot of white. Such is a sign of madness in dragon-star chicks.

No wonder it behaves so oddly. Moonflight only hopes that she cannot carry its madness back to the breeding colony. Having evidently cleared enough of the fog from its mind to recognise that she is dangerous, Stormsmell turns and clambers onto the carcass of the wooden beast.

Without Stormsmell to distract her, Moonflight returns to the important task of prying the not-prey carcass from her mouth. No matter how she pokes at it with her tongue, she can’t seem to dislodge it. So she lifts her beak clear of the water and violently shakes her head, sending the not-prey’s limbs flopping every which way.

Just as the corpse finally flies from her jaws, she hears a sharp screech from behind her and quickly turns her head. Stormsmell is perched on the very edge of the wooden corpse, pointing the gleaming fang at Moonflight. Its flat teeth are bared in what may well be the least intimidating snarl Moonflight has ever seen.

Suddenly it rushes towards her in a clumsy, off-balance lunge, golden fang crackling. Trapped as she is beneath the wooden beast and its fibrous tentacles, all Moonflight can do is shriek her challenge and flex her wings as best as she is able. The spear-tip of her right wing catches on the tentacle that holds her in place and tugs on it, pulling the rest of the strands and the now-deflated round wing closer to her.

Stormsmell doesn’t react in time. The tentacles tangle themselves around its spindly legs, sending it crashing from its perch atop the carcass and into the water below. The force of its tumble causes a subtle shift in the carcass’ position, and Moonflight realises that her tail has been ever so slightly freed by the movement.

Using all her might, she wrestles her tail out from its tomb of sand and wood and lashes it. Something splinters satisfyingly behind her, and the weight on her back lessens. Using her newly freed legs to leverage herself, she stands and spreads her wings, finally shredding the tentacles that so entrapped her.

She hears Stormsmell shriek again, muffled by the roaring of the water as Moonflight charges towards the shore. Part of her wants to turn around and slay it for daring to attack her, but she decides against it. It’s only a harmless chick, doomed to starve without its parents. Besides, its clumsy challenge indirectly freed her.

The metal-thing shifts in her chest with each bound she takes. By the time she reaches the shore, she is thoroughly sick of it. Grasping it with her beak, she quickly tears it out and tosses it to the ground, where it stains the leaf litter with her blood. A cursory examination tells her that no more metal is left in the wound. Though blood slowly dribbles down her scales, she fears no predators. No ground-dweller would dare to challenge a dragon-star.

Except for Stormsmell, it seems. But madness will do that to a creature. If it has any sense left, it will hide in the carcass of the wooden beast. Jungles are deadly by night, but dimwitted creatures will see anything new as something to be feared. That suits Moonflight’s purposes. With her chest wounded, she cannot take to the air. For the foreseeable future, the ground is her home, loathsome as it is.

All the world of the surface fears her. What doesn’t will feed her. With those comforting thoughts in mind, she slips away from the shore and into the jungle, searching for a meal and a place to make her den.

* * *

Bramble can’t believe how royally she screwed up.

“Attack the monster, you said. It’ll be easy, you said. Now who’s laughing?” she scolds herself, picking her way through the wreckage of the airship. 

The sea around her is filled with bodies, floating alongside the shattered planks of wood and other debris from the airship. Her gut tightens at the thought of Holly, grasped in the monster’s jaws and being shaken like a rag doll. It wasn’t enough for the beast to kill her. No, it had to make a toy of her as well. Killing for sport, with no intention of eating the bodies. Elder dragons truly are the worst kind of creatures.

Bramble couldn’t help herself. She had to attack. Stupid. Now the monster is gone, ready to kill again, and all Bramble managed to do is reopen her wound and fill it with salt.

As she searches the wreckage for a first aid kit, she finds herself hoping, paradoxically, that there is no civilisation nearby. That’d be bad for her, but at least it would mean that the monster won’t be able to kill again. The Valstrax, she corrects herself, because she’s pretty sure that’s what it is, even if she’s never seen one for herself. What other monster jets around on silver, clawlike wings?

No matter how hard she looks, she can’t find anyone else who survived the crash. Her gut churns at the thought of doing a head count of the bodies. She decides she doesn’t need to. Anyone who didn’t die on impact must have been knocked out and drowned.

With a cold shock, Bramble realises that chance alone spared her. Because she landed in a tree that cushioned her impact, not in the unforgiving sea. Her blood boils at the thought of the Valstrax, lying amongst its own desolation. It was trapped, stuck underneath the wreck and tied up by the rigging. Trapped, until she freed it by trying to get revenge.

If she’d just left it where it was, the tide would have come in and it would have drowned. All Bramble managed to do is make everything worse. Why couldn’t someone more competent have survived? Someone smarter, like Holly, or stronger, like Yucca.

But there’s no point in dwelling on the past, Bramble decides. She’s here now, so she has to make the best of it. After spending an hour combing through the wreck, Bramble concludes that either the airship never had a first aid kit, or it got swept away by the sea. It seems she won’t be finding any gauze to wrap her injured leg.

She does manage to find a carving knife, and someone’s relatively intact item bag. The potions hidden inside are no substitute for actual medical attention, but Bramble isn’t complaining as she sucks the bitter liquid down. 

As the herbal brew does its work and soothes the pain, Bramble sets about using the knife to cut strips of cloth from the airship’s envelope. They’re soaked through and covered in all sorts of grime, and they’re a little thicker than she’d like, but they’ll do. She stuffs them into the bag. In the absence of gauze, they’re the best thing she has.

Poking around in the cabins yields her armour, but it’s dented and she doesn’t want to think about how much it would hurt to try and put it on, so she leaves it where it is. Holly’s armour won’t fit; Bramble is a lot shorter and a bit more muscular. Besides, Holly was a gunner. She doesn’t even bother trying with Yucca’s.

Having scavenged all she can from the wreck, she offers a small prayer to the souls of the fallen. Fatalis sent one of his brood to slay them before their time, but Bramble knows they’ll be welcomed in the Fields of Paradise.

The sun is starting to sink by the time she wades through the rising surf back to the shore. The thick vegetation forms an intimidating barrier, but sleeping on the sand seems like a good way to die of exposure or be snapped up by a passing Lagiacrus. Further up the beach, a small river empties out into the sea. With nowhere else to go, Bramble decides to follow it inland.

Her progress is slow going. Between her injured leg and the tangling carpet of undergrowth, every step takes careful consideration. She doesn’t really know where she’s going, or what she’s looking for, but riverside villages are relatively common. It seems as good a plan as any to travel upstream and hope for the best.

The limited light is already fading by the time she finds a small clearing. The broad leaves of the trees above should keep her sheltered from any inclement weather, and there’s enough leaf litter and dry twigs for her to scrape together a fire if she needs one.

She chugs another potion, cups water into her mouth from the river, and leans back against a tree to rest. There are fish in the river, but she’s too tired to try catching any. She isn’t particularly hungry anyway, which she should probably find worrying. The last time she ate was before the ship crashed.

Just as her eyes start to slip closed, she hears leaves rustling, echoed by a faint bark. She snaps to attention and scans the surrounding vegetation. At first, she sees nothing, but then she starts to notice lithe shapes darting through the undergrowth, surrounding her.

Half a dozen sets of golden eyes glint in the waning light, and Bramble manages to pick out orange hides and white throat pouches. A pack of Wroggi, she realises. One of them is bigger than the rest, crouching low and hissing orders to its pack. Bramble tries to get to her feet, but the crash and subsequent trek have left her exhausted.

Three of the little raptors dart out of the undergrowth, throats puffed up and ready to spew poison gas. Bramble holds her nose with one hand and brandishes the Zinogre sword with the other. The three monsters back off, barking and chirping to each other. The Great Wroggi steps out of the shadows and howls a command, and the rest of the pack close in.

All Bramble can do is wave her sword and make as much noise as she can, hoping against hope that the raptors are stupid enough to run away from her, but the Great Wroggi is smarter than she gives it credit for. It fearlessly stalks closer, teeth bared and poison sac flared.

Suddenly the raptors snap their heads up in alarm, yipping and whimpering. The Great Wroggi listens to something only it can hear and then turns to flee into the undergrowth, howling for its pack to retreat. Then all the raptors are gone, and Bramble is left alone in the silent jungle, praying that whatever startled the predators isn’t gunning for her next.

Footsteps crunch up leaves on the forest floor, then splash into the river. The moon is rising now, and in its faint light Bramble sees a flash of silver, strolling up the river without a care in the world. The Valstrax. No wonder the Wroggi fled.

She keeps still as the monster comes to a stop right next to the clearing and gives the place a look over. It doesn’t react to her presence. Has it not seen her? It steps out of the water and onto the bank, and shakes water from its legs before settling down as if into a nest. It’s so close that Bramble could reach out and stroke it if she wanted to.

Her heart is pounding in her chest. If the Valstrax sees her, it will almost certainly kill her. She can’t move, even if she wanted to. She has only one sword to defend herself, and if she tries to stand the monster will spot her.

It sniffs at the air and makes a strange chittering noise. Bramble holds her breath. Then, slowly, the monster’s slender head turns to stare straight at her. Its eyes are startlingly blue, even in the low light. Bramble cannot help but be unnerved at the intensity of its gaze. It stares for what seems like an eternity, neither looking away nor blinking.

Something hot rises in Bramble’s chest. “Well?” she snaps at full volume. “What are you waiting for? Go ahead and murder me too, beast!”

The Valstrax tilts its head quizzically. It’d be cute if it were any other creature. It squeaks, but makes no moves to attack. It doesn’t even look as if it intends to stand up.

Bramble snarls and slashes the air with her sword. The Valstrax doesn’t even flinch. “Are you messing with me? Is that it?” she demands.

The monster merely snorts and squeaks once more. 

“They should call you… um… Squeakers!” Bramble taunts, though she’s rapidly running out of steam. “Since that’s all you seem to be doing. Why aren’t you flying off to find your next victims?”

The Valstrax suddenly opens its beak wide, showing off a maw filled with countless needle-like teeth and a slender, barbed tongue, and for a heartbeat Bramble wonders if the monster has finally taken the bait.

No attack comes. Instead the Valstrax stretches its jaws in gaping yawn and settles its head on its talons, curling its tail around itself. Unnervingly, one of its eyes stays open the entire time. Does it sleep like that?

“Planning to kill me in the morning, are you? Had enough murder for one day?” Bramble asks it.

Now is her chance, she realises. If the Valstrax is sleeping, she can slip away into the jungle. But is that really the best idea? As soon as she steps away from the Valstrax, the Wroggi will be back, and she isn’t confident she can take on the whole pack with a crippled leg and only one sword.

A powerful wave of tiredness washes over her, and she finds she can’t keep her eyes open. Falling asleep right next to the murderous demon that just slaughtered an entire airship’s worth of people isn’t the worst idea she’s ever had, but it’s definitely in the top ten. But she finds she doesn’t care as she lets the nightscape claim her.  
  


* * *

By now, Moonflight is convinced that Stormsmell has been abandoned by its parents. Why else would it have spent so long chirping and chattering in her face before finally falling asleep? The poor creature must be so desperate for parental affection that it’s latched onto Moonflight. It’s lucky she’s the one that found it, instead of the countless deadly ground-dwellers that lurk on the forest floor.

Sun is just waking up by the time Moonflight rouses herself. She scents her wound and fortunately finds that no sickness has taken hold of it. With a combination of sharp beak and flexible tongue, she sets about cleaning her scales. A thin layer of salt has dried into a crust on her legs and belly scales, and her entire chest is smeared with blood that needs removing.

While she preens, Sun carries on his journey into the sky. Before long, Stormsmell is rising too, grunting and hissing as it stretches its legs. Once again, it regales Moonflight with high-pitched chirps and warbles. It seems quite agitated by something, but it doesn’t seem to realise that Moonflight doesn’t understand it. She offers it placating squeaks in the hopes that it will learn to be quiet. That always works on her own chicks.

Stormsmell does not quieten down. It carries on begging for care, and Moonflight feels a twinge deep in her core. Right in the spot where her egg would rest, if the wooden beast hadn’t stopped her on her journey. Stormsmell is clearly lonely, and Moonflight won’t have a chick of her own until her wounds have healed and she can fly again. Surely it can’t hurt to give Stormsmell her guidance. Just for a little while. Only until she has a chick of her own.

She chitters at the unfortunate scents of blood and dirt that waft from Stormsmell’s hide. It still hasn’t managed to groom itself. Since Moonflight has finished with her own scales, she reaches over and runs the tip of her beak through its mane. It squeals and slaps at her with its stubby claws, but Moonflight has faced far worse at the talons of past chicks.

Stormsmell’s mane is horribly tangled and filled with bits of leaves. It takes Moonflight quite a while to comb through it, using her tongue to help separate the strands and clean them. Stormsmell stops struggling after a while. Moonflight is suddenly glad that her own chicks are blessed with beautiful scales instead of manes or feathers. It makes grooming them so much easier.

Once Moonflight finally finishes with its mane, Stormsmell pulls away from her, adding a garbled grunt to its repertoire of sounds. And Moonflight had thought dragon-star chicks were noisy. Does this creature ever stop chattering? It pulls out its golden fang, but Moonflight can tell that the weapon is far too small to do any lasting damage to her.

Even though its mane is clean, Stormsmell still stinks, and it’s still covered in blood. While it garbles at her, Moonflight reaches in with her beak to scrape the dried blood off of its leg. It howls like it’s dying and Moonflight pulls away, startled. Its face is twisted into a grimace as it reaches down to press on its leg with its claws.

Looking closer, Moonflight realises she has just reopened its wound. Crooning her apology, she reaches in again. Stormsmell is in too much pain to pull away. This time, Moonflight uses her tongue, cleaning away bloodstains both old and new with a light and gentle touch. The barbs scrape away the rest of the grime with ease. Before long, Stormsmell is looking much cleaner, and doesn’t smell quite so awful.

Hopefully it was paying attention. Self-care is important. With the morning’s cleaning done, Moonflight finally stands and stretches her wings. She still can’t breathe properly through her chest. Trying to take off now would end in disaster. But a certain scent has caught her attention.

She trots over to the flowing water of the river and inhales a deep breath. The river is full of swimming prey, but more importantly, Moonflight can smell that the water is particularly rich in the essence of life. If she can find the source, where the water must be welling up from one of the veins of the earth, perhaps her wound might heal a bit quicker.

She sets off at a brisk trot along the riverbank, travelling upstream. The trees are too dense for her bulk, so she finds herself splashing through the water once more, sending schools of swimming prey darting every which way to avoid her.

A sharp bark from behind catches her attention. She looks back and sees Stormsmell hobbling along behind her. Huffing, Moonflight realises that it’s decided to follow her. Its pace is far too slow for her liking, but she can’t ignore its pained squealing. Squeaking at it in a request for quiet, she slows her pace to allow it to catch up.

It chatters aimlessly at her as they travel. After a while, Moonflight gives up on the idea of it keeping quiet. If some predator decides to attack it, then that’s its own fault. Not that any predator would dare to approach with Moonflight nearby. Before long, they reach a curve in the river, where the water is deeper and the swimming prey larger.

Moonflight decides it’s time to hunt. Surely Stormsmell isn’t so useless that it can’t even catch its own food, right?  
  


* * *

After walking alongside the Valstrax for two hours, Bramble still doesn’t understand it any better. It had attacked her first thing in the morning, pulling at her hair and stabbing at her wound with its sharp beak, but then it had licked her clean like a Felyne with her kittens.

By the time Bramble had changed her bandage and taken another potion, the Valstrax had set off up the river. She’d called after it to stop, and to her surprise, it actually had. It had even slowed down so she could keep up. 

Bramble is sure it’s just waiting until it’s hungry to kill her, but she already knows that as soon as she leaves its side, she’s Wroggi food. So she may as well stay with the silver dragon for now.

Though the jungle is alive with the sounds of birds and monsters, Bramble finds it unpleasantly silent. As they walk, she fills the void with idle chatter.

“Do you come here often, Squeakers? Do you know what the local humans taste like?”

At first, the monster squeaks in response to every one of her questions, and Fatalis only knows what that means, but after a while it starts ignoring her. As they pass a meander in the river, Squeakers suddenly draws to a halt, peering into the deeper channel that runs along the riverbank.

Bramble joins it in gazing into the water, and sees a school of large red fish darting to and fro beneath the surface. Sushifish. The sight reminds her that she hasn’t eaten anything aside from a dusty old ration she found in her bag, and her stomach growls at the thought of biting into one of those fish.

Squeakers tilts its head, as if it’s trying to figure out where the sound is coming from. Bramble laughs, and the Valstrax squeaks at her before turning its attention back to the water.

The bag she swiped didn’t come with a fishing pole inside, so Bramble searches the jungle floor for a stick. After finding a suitably long one, she uses the carving knife to whittle its tip into a reasonably sharp spear. Squeakers seems to be on the same page, standing over the water with its head held perfectly still, lethal beak hovering just above the surface.

Suddenly it snaps its head down into the water, and comes up with a huge fish wriggling in its jaws. It doesn’t waste any time biting down to kill its prey and swallow it whole before it returns to fishing. So it’ll eat the fish it killed, but not the humans? What’s wrong with this creature?

Bramble turns her attention to her own fishing efforts. She’s never fished with a spear before, but it surely can’t be that hard. A splash and the sound of a flopping fish tell her that Squeakers has caught something else. Bramble sees her chance and stabs at a bright red fish cruising past.

The fish darts away, taking the rest of its school with it. Bramble sighs and lets her spear drop. She’ll have to wait for them to come back over. Squeakers chirps, and Bramble looks up at it. It’s staring at her again, with those intensely blue eyes, and in the daylight she can see that its slitted pupils are ringed with red.

It chirps again and returns to its fishing position, leering over the water like a great wader bird. Its eyes flick to Bramble, as if it’s making sure she’s watching, before it stabs down into the water and comes up with yet another fish.

“Showoff,” grumbles Bramble.

It swallows its catch, then stares at Bramble and chirps again.

“What?” she asks. “What do you want from me?”

It huffs, still staring at her. Deciding that the monster’s odd behaviour is none of her concern, Bramble picks her spear back up to try again. The fish have returned to her patch by now, and she can see a particular juicy-looking one steadily drifting closer.

Though she tries her best, she misses her strike, and the fish scatter yet again. Squeakers chirps and reaches over with one of its clawlike wings, and for a second Bramble wonders if it’s about to stab her.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it uses the spear-tip of its wing to try and drag her closer to it. The motion hurts her leg and threatens to add scraped knees to her list of problems, so Bramble pushes the scaly limb away.

“Keep your scales on, I’m coming,” she says, standing up and hobbling over to sit next to the dragon.

Up close, she can hear the soft sound of its breathing. The sound is uneven, and when Bramble looks at its softly glowing chest, she notices something she hadn’t before: a gaping wound that’s just starting to heal. It must have happened when someone shot it with the ballista. Is that why it can’t fly?

A sharp chirp from above snaps her out of her musings, and when she looks up she sees the face of the monster looking straight down at her with an intense stare and sharp beak. Bramble is suddenly very aware that she willingly came to sit right beside the monster that murdered the rest of her party.

Fortunately for her, the monster is more interested in the fish than her. It chirps to make sure she’s watching, and returns to fishing. From her new vantage point, Bramble is better able to see what it’s doing. It waits until the fish have worked up the courage to drift closer to the bank, then stabs at the water.

The attack happens so fast Bramble is sure Squeakers must have missed. When it struck, there were no fish in its path, but it pulls up a catch all the same. Bramble realises that it must have predicted where the fish would swim when it scared it and struck accordingly. The Valstrax is smarter than she thought.

It brushes against Bramble’s face with the tip of its beak and chirps again. She pushes its snout away, realising too late that antagonising the monster might not be the best idea. But if the Valstrax is offended, it doesn’t show it. It just watches, as if it’s expecting something.

Bramble follows its gaze and finds it lands on her fishing spear. The pieces click into place. Is Squeakers trying to teach her how to catch fish? That must be why it’s so intent on having her watch; it wants her to observe and copy its technique. It must realise that she’s hungry.

Well, she doesn’t need a dragon to teach her how to fish. Clasping her spear, she takes position to strike. Begrudgingly, she decides to try and mimic Squeakers’ method. Striking at where the fish are  _ going to be, _ rather than where they  _ are, _ seems like a trick that will work.

She waits until a sushifish is close enough, then stabs with all her might. Her spear comes up empty. Squeakers chitters sadly. Even though there’s no one around, Bramble feels her face redden with embarrassment. Is she seriously failing so badly that an elder dragon is taking pity on her?

Squeakers makes a strange purring sound, resting its chin on Bramble’s head. She holds as still as possible, not wanting to disturb it and provoke it into attacking. The Valstrax lifts its head and takes up position once again. How much fish does this glutton need?

It expertly pulls up yet another catch, but instead of swallowing it, it tosses it onto the bank at Bramble’s feet.

The hunter stares down at the helplessly flopping fish. “What? Is this for me?”

The Valstrax reaches over and with a single flick of its curved talon, slices open the fish’s belly, putting an end to its struggles. It stares expectantly at Bramble. She reaches for the sushifish, and when the monster makes no moves to attack her for stealing its food, hesitantly grabs it.

The fish is raw, and covered in blood and bits of soil. Neither of those things would really be issues, but it’s also been in the Valstrax’s mouth. Bramble finds she doesn’t care about any of that as she deftly uses her knife to descale and debone the fish. The cold, slimy flesh is the best thing she’s eaten in ages.  
  


* * *

By the time Sun and Moon have traded places, Moonflight is ready to settle into a temporary den and sleep. Her attempts to show Stormsmell how to catch swimming prey may have failed, but she’s confident that the chick will get the hang of it soon. The scent of life in the river water is steadily getting stronger. Soon, she’ll find the source.

When she reaches a suitably sized gap in the trees, she wastes no time in clearing a space to lie down. Stormsmell collapses against a tree. Moonflight huffs and chirps at it to get up. It may have survived falling asleep without any shelter the previous night, but sleeping outside the safety of the nest is how hatchlings get snatched up by sky-swimmers.

Moonflight pauses to think about that. Do sky-swimmers even come to the ground? She’s only ever seen them coasting along on storms of their own creation and killing defenseless dragon-star chicks. Regardless, it isn’t safe for Stormsmell to sleep without a nest to hide in.

She nudges it with her beak, but it grunts and tries to push her away. Moonflight let it get away with it earlier, but she’s not going to tolerate stubbornness any longer. She gives a high-pitched whistle, directly into what she assumes is Stormsmell’s ear.

The not-prey’s eyes fly open and it growls at her. Moonflight preens, glad to have caught its attention. After chirping to make sure it’s watching, she sets about collecting fallen leaves and branches to form a small nest. The leaves of the trees above are broad and waxy, unsuited for lining nests, but they’ll do.

Stormsmell watches with an especially blank look on its face. When Moonflight is finally finished weaving sticks and leaves together, she is sitting in the shoddiest excuse for a nest she’s ever built. But it makes a good enough example for Stormsmell to copy.

Stormsmell’s eyes roll in its skull, and for a moment Moonflight wonders if it’s about to die. Fortunately, it recovers and tries to stand, hopefully with intent to make its own nest at last.

It doesn’t get very far. As soon as it staggers to its feet, it collapses again. Moonflight scents it and finds that its wounded leg is starting to smell of sickness. She chitters softly and offers a soothing croon. Moonflight has no idea how to purge a wound of taint. All she can do is keep Stormsmell fed and warm, and hope that the chick is strong enough to survive.

Perhaps the essence of life flowing through the river water can remove the sickness. Moonflight resolves to find the source and bring Stormsmell to it. Even if she has to drag the not-prey along by its mane. Even if it’s not her offspring, Moonflight cannot lose another chick, not when the pain of last season’s failure is still so fresh in her memory.

For now, Stormsmell is clearly in no state to build a nest for itself. Working carefully, Moonflight cleans the day’s filth from its hide. It objects, but weakly. It must be tired. Once it’s clean, she tries to settle it into the nest she built. The task proves difficult. If Stormsmell were a dragon-star chick, Moonflight would simply grab it by the tail, but Stormsmell doesn’t have one.

She tries to pull it by the mane, but its sharp squealing quickly puts an end to that idea. In the end, she prods at it until it stands on its own and staggers into the nest. It immediately falls asleep, or maybe it simply passes out. Moonflight keeps her gaze trained on the rising of its chest as Moon makes her journey across the sky, until the cold light of dawn finally lulls her to sleep.

* * *

  
Bramble wakes to a headache and a deep chill gnawing at her. Leaves and branches surround her, bringing to mind the previous night, when the Valstrax built a nest and made her sleep in it.

Squeakers itself is dozing nearby, its tail curled protectively around her. Its silver scales radiate a faint heat that helps to fight off the chill. Bramble had never realised it was so warm. She’s never touched it before, except to push its snout away.

Her wound is hot and throbbing, and when she looks at it she knows in a heartbeat that it is infected. The skin around it is red and swollen and smells of rot. Bramble bites her lip. Potions are worthless against an infection, and she’s already running out of them.

She forces herself to choke down one of the rations from her bag, but only manages to get about halfway through. She isn’t hungry, and it tastes of ash anyway.

A short while later, Squeakers lifts its head, yawning and opening its closed eye. So it really does sleep with one eye open. Why? It’s not like it has anything to be afraid of, when there are no hunters around to slay it.

It rubs the tip of its beak on her face and purrs, pulling at her hair with its tongue. Bramble still doesn’t understand why it does that, but it’s gentler today than it was yesterday, so she finds she doesn’t mind it as much.

When it's done with her hair, it sniffs at her leg. It makes a loud chittering sound and recoils. It doesn’t have lips, just a stiff beak, but Bramble can imagine it screwing up its face in disgust. It must not like the smell of an infected cut. They’re in agreement on that, then.

Squeakers doesn’t let her rest for long. After a few minutes spent grooming itself, it nudges her to her feet and starts heading down the river. Bramble considers letting it go and catching up on her sleep instead, but something rustles in the undergrowth and she instantly changes her mind, hobbling after the Valstrax as quickly as she can manage.

Which isn’t very quickly at all. She scolds herself for ever thinking that her leg hurt yesterday. Today, each step is agony, and her entire body feels unimaginably tired. She almost wants to stop and just let the Wroggi come out and eat her.

Squeakers is almost more determined to keep Bramble alive than Bramble herself is. Every time she slows down, it stops and chirps sharply at her. It even comes back to prod her forwards if it thinks she’s taking too long.

“I still don’t understand you,” Bramble says to the Valstrax.

She pauses as if to let it respond. Predictably, it doesn’t. Bramble isn’t actually sure what she thought would happen.

“Why do you want to help me so bad? Are you feeling guilty or something?”

The Valstrax just gives her its customary squeak. Bramble suddenly snorts and doubles over with laughter. The movement hurts her still-tender ribs, but she doesn’t care. 

It’s just funny, how she’s out here in the middle of nowhere, probably going to be dead in a few days, and she’s wasting her time talking to the elder dragon that got her into this mess in the first place.

And it’s responding by squeaking.  _ Squeaking.  _ Aren’t elder dragons supposed to be terrifying forces of nature? Not giant squeaky birds without feathers that like pulling hair and showing people how to fish. Bramble can just imagine it now. Showing back up in Val Habar with the Valstrax at her side and seeing what sounds it makes in the crowds.

To her surprise, Bramble finds the image to be a pleasant one. The Valstrax seems like a creature that could be a friend, if she could only trust it not to kill people. On the off chance she survives this experience, maybe she’ll try to convince it to stay with her. Thoughts of bringing it home fill her increasingly foggy mind as she travels upstream alongside her silver-scaled companion.

She’ll almost regret it when they inevitably have to part ways.  
  


* * *

Moonflight’s scales itch and she tastes moisture in the air as she leads Stormsmell up the river. Above, grey clouds loom menacingly. A rainstorm is coming, and Moonflight feels in her core that it will be a big one.

Sun has risen four times since she first scented the illness in Stormsmell’s wound, and the sickness has only gotten worse in that time. Stormsmell’s soft hide seems to burn, and the chick trembles violently with each breath it takes. It stinks of rot, and it moves slower with each passing dawn.

Some part of Moonflight has already given up on it. No matter how many pieces of swimming prey she catches for it, it just gets weaker and weaker. She once tried to lead it into the river in hopes that a soak in the increasingly life-rich water would heal it, but it slipped on the rocks and was nearly swept away. Moonflight doesn’t dare to try again.

As the storm clouds gather overhead, Moonflight offers Stormsmell a piece of swimming prey. It’s a tiny one, barely worth catching in the first place, but Stormsmell coughed up the last piece of food she offered it.

She noses it, purring and chirping to try and encourage it to eat. Its noises, once so loud and demanding, have faded into hoarse and feeble murmurs. Even its grip on the golden fang has slackened. Moonflight feels her hope start to fade. A chick that doesn’t eat will be dead before Moon makes her appearance. 

Moonflight’s mind flits to past breeding seasons. She has seen countless chicks perish as a result of parents who were too slow to feed them, including her own. Is she doomed to lose another chick? Perhaps she should have killed Stormsmell at the very beginning, when it tried to attack her. At least then, it would have been spared the agony of a slow death by sickness.

A huge drop of water hits Moonflight on the tip of the beak. She glances up to see that the clouds have burst at last. Her nose and mouth fill with the musty scent of rain, so thick it obscures all other odours. Ahead, the world is lost to a haze of grey as sheets of rain slap down on the ground and into the river.

Moonflight whistles. She and Stormsmell are crouched on the riverbank, and it doesn’t seem as if Stormsmell plans on moving. Already, the river is swelling, lapping at Moonflight’s talons. If Stormsmell doesn’t move, it will be carried off into the river to drown.

Should she leave it and seek shelter? It isn’t as if it’s going to survive.

As soon as the thought crosses her mind, she rejects it. This may not be her hatchling, but her maternal instincts run strong in her core. If Stormsmell won’t move, she’ll carry it.

Gingerly, she scoops the wounded chick up in her jaws, grasping it around the middle and being careful to avoid piercing its flimsy hide with her teeth. Normally, it would be protesting violently by now, but in its weakened state all it does is grunt weakly and give a feeble wave of its arm.

Its limbs dangle awkward as Moonflight picks her way through the trees. The rain is pouring down hard, and Moonflight feels Stormsmell shaking in her jaws. She shields it from the rain as best she can with her wings, offering it what little fire she can muster with her still-wounded chest.

The ground is slick beneath Moonflight’s talons. She contemplates resting in hopes that the storm will rain itself out. But she doesn’t have time for that. Stormsmell will die before Moon has risen twice more if Moonflight doesn’t find the source of the life-river.

So Moonflight presses on, pushing forwards through the rain and trying desperately not to notice how Stormsmell’s breath grows shallower and its trembling weaker.

* * *

Bramble has no idea where she is, or what’s going on. She’s moving, but she’s not walking. Her arms and legs are dangling in the air, and she’s soaked through. Even though she feels hot enough to make a Teostra jealous, a deep chill penetrates her all the way down to her core.

Soft, reassuring purring noises are coming from somewhere close by. Bramble finds she likes them. Her muddled mind manages to connect them to the shiny silver thing she’s been following. What was it called? It was squeaky. Squeaky and scary. It killed lots of people, but it didn’t kill Bramble.

Does it just like her more? Or maybe it never meant to kill all the other people. But maybe it did, and now it’s making Bramble suffer on purpose. She feels like she has one foot in the Fields of Paradise already, and she wouldn’t mind going the rest of the way. There are people who went to live there that she likes.

A voice drifts towards her. It’s a nice voice, high and melodic like the person is singing every word.

“Oh gods, are you alright?” asks the person, with actual words. Bramble had forgotten that other people had words too. “Never mind, stupid question.”

The purring sound turns into a high-pitched growl that builds into a screech. Bramble wishes the silver thing would be quieter. She wants to hear the words.

“Hey, buddy,” says the voice cautiously. “Do you want to drop your… er, chew toy? I’ll give you this nice big fish if you do.”

The silver thing makes another angry noise.

“Okay, I guess that didn’t work. In that case… Taois! Get that lady out of its mouth, right now!”

Bramble hears something scuffling, and then suddenly she feels a sharp impact with the ground and hears a yelp from the silver thing. Bramble blinks her eyes open and tries to focus on the person staring down at her. It’s a woman, with feathers in her hair, a patch over one eye, and a rock on a necklace. The rock is glowing with a sparkly blue light.

“Cool,” mumbles Bramble, feeling her eyes sliding shut again.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep,” says the woman. “It’s raining and there’s a big monster right there. You want to stay awake for that.”

The silver thing has stopped screeching now. It stares at Bramble and the woman, who’s holding her sparkly necklace and saying something. It folds its spiky wings and makes a sound, but Bramble doesn’t think it's an angry sound. She’s been listening to the silver thing all… however long it’s been. She should know its sounds by now.

“It's alright, Taois. I think it understands. But this lady needs help. Take her back home, please.”

Bramble hears a rasping chirp. She’s pretty sure that’s not a human noise, but it isn’t a silver thing noise either. Something green and feathery pokes its red face at her, making unfamiliar noises. Nearby, the silver thing is whistling. She’s fairly sure that means it’s upset.

“It’s alright! Taois won’t hurt your chew toy. We’re going to make her better, and then you can have her back,” says the woman. Quieter, she adds, “Not.”

Bramble feels a pulse of shock. “Don’t lie,” she says. The words don’t sound quite right, but it’s important. “The silver thing is nice even though it killed the people.”

The woman doesn’t respond to that, and Bramble feels herself being lifted up and settled into a saddle. The green feathery thing is still making sounds, and Bramble can feel it breathing beneath her. Huh. She hadn’t realised it was possible to ride monsters.

“Take her back home,” orders the woman. “I’ll… figure out what to do with the big guy in the meantime.”

The green thing yowls and sets off at a run, with Bramble bouncing in place on its back. Though she tries to keep her eyes open and enjoy the weird experience of riding on a monster’s back, she soon slips back into the fog of fevered unconsciousness.

* * *

  
When next she wakes, Bramble is lying on a bed, staring up at a ceiling thatched from rushes and palm fronds. A damp rag has been placed on her forehead, and she can feel something tight and soft squeezing her leg. She wants to sit up, but she’s completely exhausted, and barely manages to move her arms.

A woman walks over and peers down at her. “Good morning. Well, more like evening. It’s already sunset by now.”

Bramble tries to ask her where she is, but her throat is too dry. As if anticipating this, the woman presents Bramble with a cup full of water. The water is clear, but has a strange blue tint to it. She gulps it down anyway, relishing in the coolness and crispness of it after so long spent drinking from the gritty river.

As soon as she finishes it, she starts feeling more awake. It even seems like some of her strength is returning. She blinks. Was she really that thirsty?

The woman laughs at Bramble’s expression, taking the empty cup away. “Feeling better already, eh? Our local spring is rich in… oh, what were those researchers calling it?”

“Bioenergy,” supplies a Wyverian man, sitting at a nearby table and fiddling with what look like tools for restraining monsters. Bramble hadn’t even realised he was there.

“Yes, that,” says the woman. Bramble guesses she’s a doctor. 

She helps Bramble to sit up. From her new vantage point, Bramble is surprised to see that there is, of all things, a Rathian dozing on the floor at the Wyverian’s feet. Its scales are tinged with grey, and it’s covered in scars. Most strikingly, its entire left wing and most of its tail are missing, and the scales along its back are charred black. How is it even alive? More importantly, how is it behaving so calmly while indoors and surrounded by people?

“Where is this?” Bramble asks the doctor. “And who are you?” It feels strange to speak out loud and receive an answer from another person, after so long spent alone in the jungle with the Valstrax.

“You’re in Ceol Village, and my name is Uill,” introduces the woman. “We don’t get visitors out here that often. Especially not half-dead visitors being carried in the mouths of elder dragons. You’ve been unconscious for almost a full day, but your fever finally seems to have broken.”

Uill’s eyes burn with curiosity, but she doesn’t ask the obvious question. Bramble is more interested in what she just said. Squeakers was carrying her? A small part of her remembers that, but it’s a blur. When she thinks of the past few days spent stumbling upstream with Squeakers occasionally trying to teach her something and giving her fish, they all blend together. Was Squeakers trying to save her?

“What happened to it?” asks Bramble. She almost doesn’t want to know. What if someone attacked it and died? Or worse, what if someone attacked it and killed it?

“The dragon? Casu—she’s the one who rescued you—said she escaped from it and it started following her towards the village,” says Uill.

Bramble feels her stomach clench. What will happen if Squeakers wanders into town? It seems to like Bramble, but how will it react to a whole group of people it doesn’t know?

“You’re a bit behind on your news,” the man chimes in.

Uill sniffs. “I don’t make a habit of leaving when I have someone to look after.”

The man picks up a strange wooden shell and a steel muzzle, with thick leather straps and tough buckles. “Casu just nipped by and told me it’s arrived and taken over the spring. I’m about to go out and try to help it, if it’ll let me.”

“Help it?” asks Bramble. Inwardly, she breathes a sigh of relief that no one seems to have been hurt by its arrival.

“Casu says it’s hurt. A bit like you, actually. Nowhere near as bad though.” The man gives Bramble a cheeky grin. “Seems the monster is a bit better at keeping its cuts clean.”

Uill rolls her eyes and tosses a rolled up piece of ratty fabric at him. It takes Bramble a second to realise that it’s her old shirt, and that someone changed her clothes while she was passed out. The shirt and shorts she’s been given are way too big, and hang loose and baggy on her, but they’re clean and that’s all that matters.

“Stop harassing my patient and go do your job, Fead,” says Uill.

The man, Fead, laughs and stands up. He’s tall and lanky, and looks like he’s in his mid-thirties, but Bramble knows full well that any given Wyverian is probably a lot older than they look. He bundles up the wooden shell and a few other tools in his arms and heads towards the door. The Rathian stands up as well and limps to his side.

“Wait,” Bramble calls after him. He pauses. “Can I come out too? I want to see if Squeakers is alright.”

Fead raises a brow. “Interesting choice of name. What do you think, Uill?”

Uill inspects Bramble’s freshly bound leg. “If you don’t push it, I think you’ll be alright. You can even take a soak in the healing spring, if the monster is willing to share.”

Bramble blinks. “Just like that?”

Uill smiles. “You’re a hunter. Your kind are hard to kill.”

Bramble certainly doesn’t feel hard to kill. Actually, she’s been feeling like she’s at death’s door for a while now. With Uill’s help, she steps out of bed and gingerly tests her injured leg. Though a dull ache throbs through it, it holds her weight. The wave of dizziness that washes over her fades after a few seconds.

“You alright? You look a little unsteady,” says Fead, offering her an arm of support.

Bramble accepts the help and hobbles out alongside him, with the Rathian following close behind. Together, they step out into a small village, nestled in the jungle. Wooden huts made of dry wood and broad leaves are clustered around a large spring.

To Bramble’s surprise, it isn’t just humans and Felynes walking between the buildings. There are monsters too, small ones wearing saddles and obediently letting themselves be petted. This must be a rider village, Bramble realises. She’s never seen one for herself before.

The spring water is a bright, unnaturally vivid blue, and a large crystal is sprouting up from the centre. A thin stream trickles over the edge, flowing to join a river that Bramble assumes is the one she was following with Squeakers.

Several monsters and humans are relaxing along the edge, though they all seem to be wary of the hulking elder dragon lying by the crystal. Bramble has no trouble at all recognising Squeakers. As soon as it notices her, the Valstrax gives a loud chirp, but chooses to stay in the water.

Bramble would have thought it’d be more violent. Although everyone else is keeping a healthy distance from it, Squeakers doesn’t seem bothered by their presence. Aren’t elder dragons supposed to be aggressive? Then again, she’s spent the last week or so living with it in the jungle, and she’s not dead. Yet.

Fead whistles. “Casu didn’t tell me it was a Valstrax!” He sighs, and drops the massive steel muzzle he’d been holding. “I wouldn’t have dragged this thing out if I’d known.”

Had he really thought that a muzzle could stop an elder dragon? Bramble admires his courage, if nothing else.

“It’s no wonder you’re still alive, little missy,” he says to Bramble.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

The one-winged Rathian growls low in its throat as soon as its clouded eyes land on Squeakers. Fead settles it with gentle scratches behind the ear. “Easy, Banri. A Valstrax did this to her, you know,” he says.

Bramble blinks at the sudden change in topic as Fead leads her towards the spring. The man keeps his gaze trained on Squeakers and his body tensed as if to flee. Bramble is glad that Squeakers likes her. She wouldn’t be strong enough to run away from it.

Fead carries on talking, not waiting for Bramble to respond. “They often fly overhead this time of year. Some sort of migration, I assume. One year, one of ‘em crashed right into poor Banri. Ripped her wing clean off, and there was nothing I could do to save her tail. She’s lucky to be alive, but she’s always been a strong lady.”

Bramble shivers, remembering screeching and splinters and falling through the sky…

“Thw Valstrax didn’t mean to, of course,” says Fead, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Bramble pauses. “You mean it was an accident?”

He nods. “Of course it was. Valstrax aren’t all that aggressive. Just clumsy. They fly fast, but they can’t really focus on obstacles. By the time they realise something’s in their way, it’s too late to do anything about it.”

He says something else, but Bramble doesn’t hear it. Not even the cold shock of the spring water at her ankles is enough to shake her from her thoughts. If Valstrax don’t hit things on purpose, Squeakers must not have meant to crash into the airship. Does that mean Bramble can trust it not to hurt her or anyone else?

Does that mean they don’t have to leave each other after all?

“Well, what do you think?” asks Fead, finally grabbing Bramble’s attention.

“Huh?”

He clicks his tongue. “The spring. Does it feel like it’s helping?”

By now, they’ve waded into a deeper part, where the azure water flows around Bramble’s injured leg. Now that she’s paying attention, she realises that it does feel better. The ache is still there, but it feels less urgent. Fead directs her to a flat rock she can sit on.

“Is this safe? It feels like I’m bathing in a potion,” Bramble remarks.

Fead laughs, a warm and pleasant sound. “It’s all natural. This water is rich in both minerals and bioenergy, and that crystal in the middle keeps everyone a little calmer. Wild monsters often stop by to relax after fights.”

Bramble wonders if Squeakers knew about this place. While they were in the jungle, it always seemed to know where it was going. Maybe it was trying to lead her here, knowing it would help heal her injury. Maybe it wanted to apologise.

While Bramble sits, Fead approaches Squeakers. His Rathian hangs back, resting the stump of its tail in the water. The Valstrax eyes the Wyverian man warily, but doesn’t seem inclined to stand up or threaten him. 

“Wish you could tell me where it hurts,” he says to Squeakers, peering at its silvery carapace.

“The wound is on its chest,” Bramble offers. “I saw it while it was trying to teach me how to fish.”

“Educated by an elder dragon, eh?” says Fead. “I bet you’ll be the talk of the Guild when you get back home.”

Bramble agrees. Especially when she shows up with Squeakers in tow.

Squeakers has its chest held under the water, talons tucked up close as if to guard it. No matter how much Fead wheedles and cajoles and offers it fish, it refuses to stand up and let him examine it.

Instead, it just stares at him and squeaks. Bramble still wonders what that sound means. While Fead backs off to consider his next angle of approach, Squeakers begins grooming itself, deftly removing dirt and parasites from its gleaming carapace. Watching the monster preen its scales, Bramble is struck by the impression that Fatalis meant to create a bird, and just forgot to give it feathers.

The sight gives her an idea. She stands up and deliberately ruffles her hair, tangling it up even more than it already was. Squeakers likes to pull her hair for some reason, especially when it’s messy. Predictably, as soon as she gets close, Squeakers chitters and reaches over with its beak.

Bramble steps aside, just out of its reach. “Nope. If you want to play with my hair, you have to come over here.”

Squeakers chirps and tries again, but Bramble stays away from the probing beak. Eventually, the monster clicks its beak and stands, water dripping from its carapace. Bramble finally lets it pull on her hair, trying not to wince too hard. It’s gotten a lot gentler about it, but it still hurts.

Fead’s face brightens. “Thanks a lot, little miss. Can’t say I know how you got that idea, but it worked.”

“Hey, you’re awake!” shouts a new voice.

Bramble looks up to see a woman splashing through the spring towards her, with a glossy-feathered Great Maccao in tow. At first, Bramble doesn’t recognise her, but the sight of the eye patch she wears and the bright yellow feathers woven into her hair brings the memory flooding back.

“You’re the one who brought me here. Casu, right?” she says.

Casu nods. “That’s me. I was really worried when I found you, you know. I thought the Valstrax had killed you and was just playing with its food.”

Bramble bristles at the accusation. Squeakers wouldn’t hurt her on purpose. Knowing now that the crash was an accident, she feels only more certain in her trust of the monster.

Casu blinks, as if she’s just noticed Squeakers. The dragon is too absorbed in Bramble’s hair to notice Casu.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?” asks the one-eyed rider.

“Long story,” Bramble admits.

“Quiet, you’ll startle it,” warns Fead, sidling closer.

While Squeakers is busy playing with Bramble’s hair, Fead appraises its wound with a critical eye. “I’ve seen smaller monsters survive bigger injuries. I think our draconic friend will be just fine.” He hefts the wooden plate and adjusts the buckles. “I’ll cover it anyway. Don’t want it picking or trying to fly before it’s ready.”

As soon as he gets close to it, Squeakers stops biting Bramble’s hair and hisses. Fead quickly backs off. It glares at him with suspicion in its blue eyes. The Rathian snarls in response, and Squeakers spreads its clawlike wings in a menacing display. Casu’s Maccao squawks and raises its fists as if to punch Squeakers in the nose.

Bramble’s heart is in her mouth. There can’t be a fight right here. Someone will end up dying, be it Squeakers or Fead and Casu. Thankfully, the two tamed monsters quickly realise that this is a fight they can’t win and back down. Squeakers settles its wings back into resting position, still glaring daggers at Fead.

The Wyverian exhales. “That was close. Let’s try to avoid riling our guest up anymore, alright Banri?” He puts a hand to his chin. “Now how am I supposed to bind that injury if it won’t let me get close?”

“I could have Taois try to distract it?” suggests Casu. The Great Maccao hoots at the sound of his name.

“Sure, if you’d like him to lose an arm,” says Fead.

“Why don’t you let me try?” offers Bramble. Fead and Casu stare at her. “It likes me. It’ll let me help it.”

Fead hums. “Fine, but be careful. Uill will feed me to a Deviljho if I let you aggravate that leg.”

He shows her how to attach the plate and passes it to her, stepping well back. Just like Bramble was hoping for, Squeakers allows her to walk right up to it. Though it gives a dirty look to the suspicious wooden shell, it doesn’t attack. After a moment of careful fiddling, Bramble fastens the covering onto its chest.

At once, the dragon looks down and starts worrying at the straps and wood with its beak, a low hiss building in its throat. Bramble steps away as quickly as she can.

“Well, seems like we’ve got a regular dragon-whisperer over here,” says Fead.

Casu frowns. “It doesn’t sound too happy about it.”

Indeed, Squeakers doesn’t seem to enjoy having the plate strapped to its chest, but the leather and wood are tough enough to withstand its gnawing. Bramble feels a twinge of guilt at its distress. 

“It doesn’t have to wear it for long,” Fead reassures her. “Only for a few days, I’d say. Dragons heal quickly, and the spring water will help. Then it can be back up in the air and on its way.”

For some reason, Bramble doesn’t like the thought of Squeakers flying away, never to be seen again. It’s been helping her, and now she’s helping it to get better. Elder dragons are supposed to be smart, so wouldn’t it be grateful? Maybe even grateful enough to stay with her?

* * *

Moonflight pulls at the strange binding Stormsmell put on her, but can’t seem to pull it off. It rubs irritatingly against her scales. To make matters worse, whatever fire the life-rich water had given her back is suddenly stifled once again. She snorts and splashes at the water with her beak. She had been so close! So close to touching the sky again.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have let Stormsmell get so close without looking at what it was holding, but she was too excited to see it alive. Ever since the not-prey that runs with the ground-dwelling bird took it from her, Moonflight had given up on the idea of ever seeing Stormsmell again.

It seems at ease, in this colony of its own kind. The pointy-eared one supports it and leads it into one of their wooden nests. Moonflight doesn’t understand how any creature could be comfortable in such a tiny, closed-off nest, but ground-dwellers are a strange bunch.

Her scales itch from being soaked for so long, so she stands and lets the water stream from her carapace before loping away to find a dry place to settle down before Moon comes out to greet her. Though she’d like to go past the treeline where it’s safer, several not-prey and lesser beasts bar her way, waving their stubby claws to turn her around.

Moonflight doesn’t quite understand why they want her to stay in their colony, but as long as none of them bother her, she doesn’t mind. Perhaps they hope she’ll keep predators away.

There are precious few materials around for nest-building, but Moonflight makes due with the clumps of sticks and pebbles she digs out from the riverbed and the leaf litter. The nest is tiny and, were she on a mountain peak where she belongs, would be horribly drafty. Fortunately the air is calmer down here surrounded by trees.

Instinctively, Moonflight looks around for Stormsmell, hoping to put it safe in the nest. Then she remembers that it’s with its own kind now. It doesn’t need her help anymore, not now that it has Birdrunner and Sharpear to look after it. Though the wooden nests look uncomfortable to her, they probably suit not-prey perfectly.

Yes, Stormsmell is better off with its own kind, and without it to take care of, Moonflight can focus on her own recovery. A warm feeling fills her core at the thought of Stormsmell, healthy and having left the nest. She knows it isn’t her hatchling, was never really her hatchling, but she enjoys its success all the same.

Soon, her injury will have healed completely, and she can fly off to find her mate and raise her own chick. Stormsmell will be just fine without her.  
  


* * *

Three days have passed since Bramble and Fead covered Squeakers’ injury, and Bramble is feeling better than she has in a long time. She’s been staying with Casu in that time, waiting for the merchant caravan she’s been assured shows up every month. That caravan is her ticket home. Bramble just hopes that they’re willing to let Squeakers come along with them.

One day, a Felyne knocks on the door. “Chief Bodh wants to see you, nya.”

Bramble hasn’t met the village chief yet. She’s been told about him, but Uill had insisted she rest longer before being grilled by him. It seems her break is over.

She follows the Felyne as they lead her through the haphazard streets towards a hut that’s slightly bigger than the rest. Inside it smells of incense and eggshells, and a tiny Wyverian man is sitting on an armchair that’s almost three times bigger than he needs it to be. He looks at least a hundred. Bramble knows that means he’s even older than that.

“Welcome,” he says warmly, after the Felyne has left and Bramble has found a seat. “My name is Bodh. I’m the leader of Ceol Village.”

Bramble introduces herself to him, and, after some prompting, tells him the story of the crash and subsequent trek through the jungle. He listens politely, nodding when necessary and never interrupting.

When she’s finished, he hums. “Well, it sounds like you’ve had quite the ordeal. Please, stay and rest here as long as you need. The trading caravans should be here in a few weeks.”

Bramble smiles. “Thank you. I’m very grateful for your help. I’m sure Squeakers is too.”

“Ah yes, the elder dragon. Quite a shocker to see it stroll into town without a care in the world,” says Bodh. “Fead thinks it’ll recover and be back in the air before you know it.”

“I wanted to ask you about that, actually,” says Bramble, fidgeting excitedly in her seat.

“Oh?” He takes a sip from a glass perched on the arm of the chair.

“You tame and ride monsters here, right? Could you teach me how to do that? I’d like to bring Squeakers back home with me.”

His eyes widen, and he tips the glass back further, turning his sip into a gulp. Bramble narrows her eyes. She recognises the body language of someone trying to stall for time.

Eventually, he puts the glass down and clears his throat. “Apologies. Are you sure about that? An elder dragon is not easily tamed, even by experienced riders.”

Bramble nods her head decisively. “I’m very sure. It hasn’t hurt me yet. Or anyone else in the village.”

Bodh sighs. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse your request.”

At first, Bramble wonders if she’s misheard him. “What?”

“I will not teach you how to ride monsters.”

“Why not?” Bramble demands.

He looks at her with a deep sadness in his eyes. “I understand how you feel. But nature isn’t ours to keep.”

“No, I don’t think you do understand,” snaps Bramble, fuming.

Bodh doesn’t say anything. He simply watches her with a mix of pity and that same sadness. Bramble huffs and storms out, startling a Felyne on her way out.

It’s fine. She doesn’t need him. She’ll figure it out on her own.  
  


* * *

Bramble finds herself back in Casu’s hut, perching herself on a crate near the pile of straw where Taois sleeps. The bird wyvern is curled up like an oversized cat, feathery crest ruffling with each breath he takes. Casu herself is sitting in a chair, idly stitching up a torn pair of trousers.

“I think that the Valstrax is ready to go back into the wild by now,” says Casu conversationally, without looking away from her work.

“Maybe,” says Bramble noncommittally. She’s still thinking about her discussion with the village chief.

Casu hums and carries on working. Bramble watches the steady movement of the needle. Casu is very coordinated for someone with only one eye.

“I asked Chief Bodh about keeping Squeakers, but he didn’t seem to like the idea,” Bramble finds herself saying. “He told me, ‘Nature isn’t ours to keep’.”

The needle in Casu’s hand moves in silence for a few moments more while the rider considers what she’s just heard. “I’d say he was right,” she says eventually, her tone guarded and cautious.

Bramble bristles. “That seems pretty hypocritical of you,” she says. She casts a pointed look at Taois. The conversation hasn’t disturbed the Maccao, who remains peacefully slumbering away.

“I’m not keeping Taois here.”

At that, Bramble cannot help but raise an eyebrow. “He seems pretty kept to me.”

Casu puts the needle down and reaches up to her face, fingers delicately brushing against her eye patch. “Did I ever tell you how I lost my eye?” she asks, as though they aren’t both aware that she hasn’t.

Bramble shakes her head anyway.

The rider closes her remaining eye and tilts her head back. “It was a long time ago. Maybe eight years back? Taois was young, and so was I. He’d gotten himself covered in blood after a fight, and I didn’t want him to ruin his feathers. So I thought I’d give him a bath.”

She pauses and opens her eye again, fingering the fabric that hides the empty socket. “Taois didn’t want a bath. So he punched me. There was no way to save my eye.”

Bramble winces reflexively. “I’m sorry.”

Casu shakes her head. “You shouldn’t be. I got lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Lucky he decided to use his arms instead of his legs. People think of Maccao as weak, but their kicks can shatter bone. I was kneeling down. My head was in easy reach. If he’d kicked, he’d have caved my skull in.”

Bramble shivers. “I see.”

“Monsters are fundamentally wild animals. No matter how friendly they may seem, it’s impossible to know what they’re thinking. Even a monstie that’s lived its whole life with humans has an instinctive wild streak. They aren’t domestic. They’re just as wild as their free-roaming counterparts.”

Unbidden, images flash into Bramble’s mind. Squeakers, upset by something and lashing out. Spearlike wings burning with the dragon element as they pierce her through the chest. But Bramble is sure Squeakers would never do that. The dragon may have been more distant since arriving at the village, but it cared for her when they were in the jungle. It even tried to save her when she was sick. It’s her friend, right?

It’s as if Casu can read her mind. “I wonder how much damage that Valstrax could do?” she asks conversationally. “What would happen if you tried to force it to do something it didn’t want to? To stay when it wanted to go?”

“Squeakers hasn’t hurt me on purpose.”

“Neither had Taois.”

The retort catches Bramble off-guard with its sharpness. Seizing the silence, Casu carries on.

“I don’t think he meant to hurt me. He was startled, that’s all. But he still left me with a permanent blind spot, and a scar that will never fade.”

“But it was an accident,” says Bramble, her voice tinged with desperation. “He’s still your friend. He’s still tame.”

Casu shakes her head firmly. “No. He is my friend, it’s true. But he isn’t tame, and I’m not keeping him. He’s here because he wants to be, not because I’ve forced him to be. If he wanted to leave, all he’d need to do is kick the door down and run. I wouldn’t be able to stop him. I wouldn’t want to.”

She picks the sewing needle back up. “Of course, not all monsters get violent when they’re upset. Some of them just shut down.”

“What, like they get depressed?” asks Bramble.

Casu nods. “Monsters in other rider villages have died of misery before, you know. It mostly happens when people try to tame wild adults.” She blinks. “Do you know how the Rite of Kinship works?”

Bramble is left stumbling at the sudden change in topic. “It’s how riders befriend monsters, right?”

Casu nods. “You find an egg, and you present your Kinship Stone to it. Then… you ask the monster inside to form a bond with you. If it wants to be your friend, it will hatch for you. If it doesn't, it won’t. We return eggs that won’t hatch to their nests. And we never try to take adults from the wild. They’re too used to freedom. Captivity would break their hearts.”

Bramble has never realised that before. That monsters could show any emotions other than anger. Then again, Squeakers has already proven that to her. “I wouldn’t be keeping Squeakers in captivity,” she insists feebly. “It’d still be able to walk around and maybe come on hunts.”

“Any monster that doesn’t roam free in the wild is in captivity.” Casu looks Bramble right in the eye. “And keeping them against their will would be cruel.”

The hunter can’t seem to bring her gaze up from the floor. “I suppose it would be.”

The one-eyed rider fixes Bramble with a hard stare. “Did you ever ask the Valstrax what it wanted?”

It’s all Bramble can do not to flinch. Without a word, she rises and spins on her heels towards the door, kicking up stray strands of straw and startling Taois awake. The last thing she hears before the door slams shut is the Great Maccao’s frightened chitter.  
  


* * *

Days go by. Bramble does her best to avoid Casu after their argument. But it still nags at her mind as she watches Squeakers slowly get more and more lazy. The dragon doesn’t clean her hair anymore, or try to pull her into nests. Nor does it seem interested in seeing how good she’s gotten at spearfishing.

Instead, it spends its days staring into space, rubbing its nose on the ground, and chewing the scales on its front legs. Sometimes, it stands up and paces, wings held loosely and carapace dull with accumulated dust.

If she didn’t know better, Bramble would almost say the Valstrax is depressed.

She does her best to ignore the unpleasant thought. One day, Bramble watches from the edge of the spring as Fead strides up to Squeakers without a care in the world. A bucket hangs from one of his elbows, brimming with fish and fine cuts of meat. In his arms he carries a bundle of sticks and fabric and small rocks. Behind him limps Banri, the one-winged Rathian.

Squeakers is lying listlessly on the ground, but it still musters the effort to hiss and snap at Fead as he sidles up to it and drops his pile of materials. A moment later, he tips the bucket on to the ground and steps away. 

After considering the offer for a moment, Squeakers glances around and begins adding to the ring of rocks and sticks it sits in, patching up any holes with scraps of cloth. Occasionally, it reaches out to snap up a chunk of meat and swallow it down in one gulp.

Bramble limps up next to Fead, careful to avoid the Rathian. Banri seems mellow, but she doesn’t want to take any chances. Distantly, she’s aware of how odd that is when she’s so willing to trust a Valstrax not to kill her.

”Ah, it’s our other stray from the jungle,” he says. “Come to check on our guest?”

“What did you give to Squeakers?” asks Bramble.

“Just some nesting materials, to make her a little more comfortable.”

“Her?”

Fead nods and points to where Squeakers is busy fortifying its nest. “I thought your silvery friend was looking a little broody. Turns out I was right. She’s a strong one. Fiery. I think she’ll be ready for release very soon, if she isn’t already.”

Bramble frowns at that, but decides against saying anything. “What does ‘broody’ mean?” she asks instead.

“When a lady monster is hoping for chicks, she gets a little restless. You’ll see her behaving anxiously, building nests, pacing, rubbing her scent on everything around her…” He laughs. “Some ladies get so excited they try to practice being a mother on any smaller creatures around them.”

Bramble thinks back to her time in the jungle with Squeakers. The monster hadn’t seemed particularly anxious then. “Are you sure Squeakers is… um… broody?”

“Little miss, I’ve been this village’s head groom for fifty years. I know a broody lady when I see one,” says Fead with a booming laugh. He pauses. “Although, I suppose no one really knows what a broody elder dragon looks like.”

Bramble grins triumphantly.

“But it wouldn’t surprise me,” Fead carries on. “Most big predators breed at this time of year.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re clever. They time it to match the herbivores’ breeding season. By the time the big monsters’ eggs have hatched, the herbivores’ calves are big enough to make a nice meal, but not so big that they’re a hassle to hunt. Nature can be very devious, you know,” says Fead.

Bramble hadn’t known that. “I see. So how do you ‘cure’ broodiness?”

“Find her a male, or let her instincts run their course,” said Fead. He scratches his head. “Of course, that’s easier said than done.”

He doesn’t give Bramble the chance to ask what he means. “Sometimes, if a lady monster is kept from mating for too long, her maternal instincts get so strong she can’t help but mother anything smaller than her. Kids and women are favourite targets, on account of their higher voices. Makes them sound like chicks,” says Fead.

He scratches the Rathian behind her ears, earning a hoarse trill of delight. “When this old queen was in her prime, she’d adopt half the village if you let her! Isn’t that right, Banri?” The Rathian croons in response.

Bramble is starting to get a sinking feeling in her gut. “What does that look like?”

“Hmm?”

“What does it look like when a monster tries to adopt something that isn’t a chick?”

Fead hums. “Well, it looks different for every species. Some monsters don’t look after their young at all. With Banri here, she’d drag little kids and Felynes inside any small space she could find. If she caught someone smelling a little funny, she’d try to groom them. And if she decided someone wasn’t being fed enough, she’d present them with bits of food she’d regurgitated.”

Bramble’s mind flits back to Squeakers, roughly combing her hair with a sharp beak and cleaning the blood away with a barbed tongue.

Fead doesn’t notice Bramble’s sudden reverie. “If you’ve got a broody Jaggia, then she’ll be very insistent on teaching you new tricks. Like how to break into the food stores. Or how to properly take care of your frills. Jaggi learn by example, so the den mothers have to be very patient teachers.”

Teaching. Squeakers liked to teach her things, once. Is it possible that Casu was right? Was Squeakers just doing what it naturally does, and Bramble assuming all the wrong things?

Fead doesn’t seem to notice when Bramble turns and walks away. He’s too busy talking about how broody Astalos curl themselves around their chosen targets to protect them from predators at night.  
  


* * *

Moonflight coughs up a half-digested piece of food and idly chews on its softened bones, picking at the rancid flesh with her teeth. How long has it been since she tore through the air, diving into the churning water below to snap up swimming prey?

In the deepest recesses of her body, she feels her inner fire smouldering, slowly withering away without air to feed it. But her chest feels fine. It has felt fine for several cycles of Sun and Moon’s endless waltz. Still she cannot draw in breath. Still her wings are hollow.

The regurgitated prey is already finished, and Moonflight is once again left alone with nothing to do and no prey to hunt. Without much thought, she lowers her head to her folded foreleg and chews at her scales. Blood bubbles up from the tiny pinpricks. Moonflight doesn’t care. Pain and the taste of hot iron in her mouth are somewhat new sensations.

A sharp bark rings out, and Moonflight pauses in her chewing. She looks up to see Sharpear cautiously approaching. Its wounded fire wyvern is following behind, with no hint of worry or trepidation in its scent. Part of Moonflight wants to stand up and show it that the full might of a dragon-star is something to be feared, but she cannot be bothered.

She lowers her head to return to her gnawing, but Sharpear barks at her again. With a huff, Moonflight hauls herself to her feet. If the irritating not-prey will not leave her alone, then she’ll have to find a new spot to lie down. Sharpear curves its mouth upwards as Moonflight walks away.

For a while, Moonflight paces around the not-prey colony, careful to avoid the wooden nests. If the not-preys are anything like dragon-stars, they will be all too eager to defend their young. Moonflight is not interested in a fight. Not while she’s so weak, trapped on the ground with only scraps of tasteless food and no breath to stoke her fire.

Before long, she returns to her nest. The circle of stones and sticks is in disrepair, but she’s too lazy to fix it. Sharpear has stopped bringing her new materials for it.

Has she missed her chance? Will her mate be gone when she finally files out to greet him? That assumes she’ll ever get to return to him. At this point, Moonflight is sure she must have caught some sort of deadly sickness. Why else would her chest be so thoroughly blocked, more than it ever was when she was injured?

If she is sick, then there’s no hope for her. No reason to carry on. Grooming herself to reduce drag is a waste of time if she’s never going to fly again. So is stretching her legs and wings. All that’s left for her is to wait to die.

At least Stormsmell’s visits provide the occasional burst of entertainment. But she can tell that even Stormsmell no longer needs her help. It no longer smells of sickness, and it walks stronger now than it ever did before. It even keeps itself groomed properly.

Moonflight knows that before long it will leave the colony to make its own way in the world. It doesn’t need her anymore. There’s nothing at all to motivate her to fight against the haze of boredom that clings to her.

All she can do is lie around, waiting in vain for her inner fire to return and catapult her into the wide open sky. And when that doesn’t happen, at least some other beast will get some use out of her body.

* * *

Bramble can’t take it anymore.

Every day, Squeakers loses a little more of its energy. It won’t even stand up to stretch its legs anymore without Fead bothering it. But it still has enough fight left in it to threaten him when he tries to touch it and take the wooden covering away. Bramble knows in her heart that she’s the only one who can take it off.

The only one who can free Squeakers.

But she can’t. Even the thought of letting it go sends a pain stabbing through her heart. Squeakers is the only one she has left. Everyone else is dead, fallen into the sea and drowned in a tragic accident. How can she go back to the Guild so desperately, crushingly alone?

Squeakers yelps quietly as it wrenches a scale free from its own silvery arm, sending a thin trail of blood trickling down to the ground. After a moment of worrying at the scale with its beak, it lets it fall to the ground and resumes chewing on itself.

Bramble practically feels her heart snap in two. In that moment she realises that what she wants matters very little. If she lets Squeakers go, then it will hurt. It will hurt so much. But she’ll live. Squeakers will die of misery if she keeps it here. It doesn’t belong on the ground.

Bramble walks up to the Valstrax and reaches out, studying its reactions. The monster stares at her with its uncanny, unblinking gaze. But it makes no moves to attack her. When she greets it, it offers her a quiet and hoarse squeak. For a moment, Bramble’s resolve is shaken, but she quickly forces herself onwards.

Tears well up in her eyes as she reaches up, towards the makeshift sling that keeps the wooden plate held tight against the monster’s chest. Gingerly, she unties one strap. The shell slips, and the monster’s chest is alight with a red glow in an instant. Perfectly healed, aside from a small discolouration where the bolt once penetrated. Bramble knows full well that it’s been healed for a while.

The Valstrax suddenly stands and shifts from foot to foot, drinking in the air as it flows into its chest. Its trident-like wings are splayed open, tilting upwards as if to grab the sky, glowing with power just waiting to be unleashed. Carefully, Bramble steps around it and undoes the other strap. The wooden plate falls to the ground with a loud clack, and the air rushes into the Valstrax’s chest so quickly that Bramble can actually hear it.

“You’re free now,” says Bramble around the lump in her throat. “We may not have met in the best way… but you saved me. You saved me and I’ll never forget it. I wish you could stay with me forever.”

Her voice hitches, forcing her to pause. “But Bodh and Casu were right. You aren’t mine to keep.”

She swallows hard. The Valstrax is staring again, expressionless gaze betraying no hint of what it’s thinking.

“If you want to go, then go. I won’t stop you anymore.”

With that, Bramble backs away, retreating to the first line of houses to watch. When the Valstrax doesn’t move, she almost lets herself hope that it’s decided to stay after all. That she was right all along, and that she wasn’t just misinterpreting its natural behaviours.

But the spell is soon broken. The Valstrax examines itself and stretches its wings, crowing all the while. It sucks in a great breath of air, its chest blazing like the sun, and lets out a tremendous, triumphant shriek.

Then suddenly, with a sound like a clap of thunder, the Valstrax is gone, shooting into the air so quickly that Bramble almost misses it. When she looks to the sky, all she sees is a brilliant red star tinged with white, steadily getting smaller as the Valstrax resumes whatever journey she interrupted it from.

Someone steps up behind her and lays their hand on her shoulder. “You made the right choice,” says Casu. “Some things are better appreciated from afar.”

Bramble gives her a watery smile and turns back to the sky. Before long, she hears Casu’s footsteps as the rider leaves her be. 

She finds herself liking that sentiment. The Valstrax is not a malicious beast out to get her. Nor is it a docile creature she can tame and keep as a pet. It’s something to be admired—but from a distance. It’s so much more impressive to see it do what it was always meant to do.

In time, the scarlet star fades, leaving Bramble alone with her thoughts and the clear blue sky.


End file.
